If You Love Me
by quintessential-dreamer
Summary: It's been a while since Kurt felt anything more than numbed, empty, a shell of who he used to be. So when a beautiful, broken boy from his past finally resurfaces, he doesn't know if it's quite possible for him to fall in love all over again.
1. Chapter 1

"Kurt."

Kurt swung his head around. That voice. So familiar.

"Kurt."

Again. The warm, lilting undertones made him shiver. The voice that flowed deep and smooth reminding him of melted chocolate, that could make him feel molten lava run slow and deliberate beneath his skin. He spun around desperately, trying to find the source of it, because if he knew where it was coming from, he knew what he would find, and maybe, finally, his fears would be put to rest. Quest ended, questions answered. But nothing. Everything was white, edges blurred. It was very bright… or was it? Was there anything here at all? The only things he could sense were the sound of his heart pounding, his heavy breathing, and a frantic need to search for answers. His eyes hurt but didn't hurt, and he registered the feeling of panic but somehow everything felt slippery and unreal and not-quite-there. It occurred to him that it was hard to breathe.

"Kurt." Once more, louder and more insistent than before.

"Where are you?" Kurt cried desperately. There was no answer. Now it was very dark, and maybe even a little cold (he couldn't feel properly, he didn't know). He took a few running steps forward, then stopped. It was all wrong. He whipped around to his left and started walking quickly, his footsteps echoing loudly in the silence. The more he walked, the more he became convinced that he was moving in circles, but he couldn't stop, because he had to _find_.

"Kurt Kurt Kurt Kurt…" His name was repeated, over and over again, faster and in a steady stream. The voice was so familiar, but yet so different, so cold. Gradually, it got louder, rising to a crescendo, and as it did, it became harsher and harsher, until it was almost a scream of accusation. Soon it was no longer a balm to his ears, but a torturous cry.

"Stop," Kurt whimpered. "Stop!" He stopped moving and clamped his hands to his ears like a child, trying to block out the noise. He twisted on the spot, eyes darting around frantically, trying to find the source of the voice. It was everywhere. "Kurt Kurt Kurt Kurt…" It didn't stop. He fell to his knees and screamed, his whole body trembling. The voice reverberated through his head, shrieking his name in sync with the crazed pounding of his heart.

"Stop, please just stop!" he repeated over and over and over again, until his voice was hoarse and tears were streaming down his cheeks and pooling onto the ground, forming a salty moat around his crouched form.

Then, suddenly, it did. It was silent, but with an eerie emptiness filling the air. When he looked up in the quiet, breathless and terrified, he saw him. A blurred, pale silhouette standing ramrod straight, looking down at Kurt from afar.

"No," Kurt whispered.

He scrambled unsteadily to his feet and ran towards it as fast as he could on his wobbly legs, determined this time to catch him, make sure he didn't leave. He got closer and closer; despite this, the figure remained blurry, as if there were a screen of rippling air wrapped around it. He could just make out the familiar breadth of shoulders, the dark shade of hair. Almost… But just as he reached out, the figure disappeared and his fingers grasped at thin air, and suddenly he was

falling, down down down down and he felt too tired, too weary to scream for help. He closed his eyes and let himself fall through the darkness, somehow enjoying the sense of weightlessness falling gave him. Somehow, without the ground hard beneath his feet, the tedious ordeals of real life (real life?) didn't feel as oppressive.

Then he hit the ground, and his skull and his body and his entire being shattered split cracked open, and there was blinding pain but no pain, and he screamed once, then whispered the name that stilled rolled from his tongue like a gentle caress.

Kurt woke up with a strangled cry, gasping loudly. He felt sweat soaking through his pyjamas, the silky material clinging to his skin uncomfortably. He sat up slowly, breathing heavily through his nose. There was a horrible weight in his stomach, and his head hurt. He was still shaking. He hadn't had that nightmare in months. _It's over, _he told himself, knowing full well that it wasn't. _You have drawn a veil over all that, _and he almost laughed, because he would forever conjure up images of the past, and mourn over what could have been. No, not mourn, that was too depressing a word. He would wonder. He would wonder with regret. _Forget him_, and when he thought this his heart ached, because how could he ever?

By the time his heartbeat settled to a more leisurely pace, his mind was still whirling and his stomach roiling unpleasantly. He didn't think he could sleep that night. Shoving the blanket off his legs, he slipped off the bed and padded quietly out of the room to the tiny kitchen he and Rachel had shared for the past (roughly) three and a half years. It was 3am, the gently ticking wooden clock said when he squinted at it through the darkness. Outside the window, the sky was lit up dimly with the glow of city lights and the New York City nightlife. Kurt imagined the thousands of people partying and getting drunk or stoned or laid in bars right now, and felt very alone.

He poured himself a glass of water, swearing softly when his night vision didn't prove as good as he hoped and spilled water all over the kitchen counter. The water made an obscenely loud sloshing sound as it splashed onto the countertop, and then dripped onto the floor in a steady rivulet. He stared at the droplets of water falling onto the whitewashed tiles, and felt strangely like either sinking to the ground and crying or screaming expletives at the offending puddle of water pooling placidly on the floor. He was alone here. Taking a deep breath and telling himself _you can do this Kurt Hummel you've survived the last two-and-a-half years and you can surely live through an episode of spilled water _he shakily mopped up the water, carefully poured himself another glass and walked back to his room.

As he sat on the edge of the bed and sipped at the water – it felt cool and good and refreshing on his parched throat, and made him feel just a teeny bit better – he thought about the word _living_ and how he hadn't been doing just that for the last two-and-a-half years. He hadn't lived After, to put it simply. His chest squeezed tightly. He thought about the last time he had gone out to a party or gotten drunk and realized he couldn't remember when that was. Not that he particularly enjoyed either of those things; they were just kind of representative of the high points in his life. Because on any of those occasions, in the midst of disorienting strobe lights and warm, sweaty bodies and obnoxious pounding music, he had always been happily accompanied by the memory of someone he loved. Reassured by the unfailingly comforting thought of someone who loved him back.

He lay back on the bed, and stared up at the ceiling.

When he twisted his head around to check, the clock read 4:17am. So he stood up and got out of bed for the second time that night, and made his way to Rachel's room. He let himself in quietly, making sure not to wake her. She was curled up into a ball at the edge of the bed, tucked snugly under the bright pink covers, snoring softly. She looked very peaceful, her hair falling over the side of her face and her lips turned up slightly at the corners into a small smile. He loathed himself for dragging her into his problems, but he just really needed someone right now. He sat himself down on the other side of the bed, and waited for Rachel to wake up and realize he was there.

It didn't take long; Rachel was a light sleeper.

"Kurt?" she mumbled groggily, rolling around to face him. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, and pushed herself up, yawning. Her hair was wild and mussed, but her eyes were bright.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. His voice sounded choked, even to him.

Rachel stared at him for a few moments, and Kurt sat silently, letting her register what was going on. He didn't feel much like talking.

"Oh, Kurt," she said sadly.

That was enough to let the tears finally come, and he leaned into Rachel's arms and sobbed for the first time in a long while as she held him and rocked him from side to side slowly, humming a soothing melody. He felt safer, less messed-up in her embrace, but he was also more too aware that the arms around him were not the right ones. They were too slender to hold him up, too cold to warm his insides. The voice singing to him was too high, not quite the melted chocolate tones he missed with a passion.

When his sobs had subsided to pathetic hiccups, Rachel spoke again. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Kurt," she told him, and she sounded like she had cried a little too. "You've been so strong all this while, and I really admire you for that. You've lasted all this while."

He was silent for a long moment before he replied. "I thought I was better."

She laughed, but it was a sad laugh. "It takes a long time," she murmured, and Kurt thought about how maybe she was still broken, too.

"We'll get through this together, alright?" she said, smiling encouragingly at him.

"Okay," he replied automatically, accepting the tissue she brandished at his face, knowing that this was his battle to fight. He dabbed gently at his eyes, and thought about how he didn't care how terrible his eyes would look tomorrow morning.

"Now sleep," Rachel commanded, and he nodded mutely and sank lower onto the bed. She lay back down by his side and entwined her hand with his, squeezing it comfortingly.

"It's going to get better, I'm sure of it."

"Okay," he repeated tiredly.

Kurt had been right. Staring into the bathroom mirror, his eyes were puffy and still slightly red around the edges in the morning. His skin was splotchy, and his body somehow ached everywhere. Groaning, he splashed his face with cold water to hopefully reduce the swelling, and decided to use the Kiehl's face mask he had been saving for a special occasion. Everything was put into a little more perspective in the light of morning, and he cursed himself for not calming down properly last night before going to bed.

Rachel was curled up on the couch, staring off into the distance and munching on a bowl of salad, still dressed in her pyjamas. She started when he walked into the living area with a black mud mask smeared on his face, but her expression softened almost instantly.

"How are you?" she asked concernedly.

He paused for a while before replying with a sigh. "I've been better. And I think this morning is a considerable improvement from last night." He walked over to the couch and sat down heavily beside Rachel, crossing his legs beneath him. "But I just never know when it's going to end, you know?"

Rachel placed a hand on his leg comfortingly. "I get the sentiment. You always tell yourself that one day you'll finally manage to get over it, because that's what's supposed to happen. People forget, and move on. But every day you just wait and wait and wait until you realize that it's not that easy." She met his eyes steadfastly.

Kurt placed his hand over hers and squeezed gently. Sometimes he was amazed that the annoying, self-obsessed, selfish girl from 5 years ago had grown up to be someone so wise. If you had asked him then, he would have cringed at the thought that Rachel Berry would one day become his best friend, probably not even believed them. Because that's what she was. When he had gone through hell after his first year of college, she was the one who pulled him out of bed every day and forced him to shower, the one who made sure he ate at least three (most of the time she had only managed with two, to be honest) square meals a day and didn't spend the whole time cooped up in his room. She was the one who stayed up every night to hold him while he cried, or listened to him talk when he needed it. It had lasted for more than one awful year, and she had stayed faithfully by his side, never once complaining. Rachel was the only person who was close to understanding. Because however close Kurt was to his dad, Burt would never be able to get over the protective father instinct in him to truly empathize.

Before, Kurt hadn't treasured Rachel as much as he did now.

"I really don't know how you got so smart, Rachel Berry," he told her fondly. Her face crinkled up as if she were trying not to cry.

"Plus you're the only person who can still look at me so normally with this black horror mask I have plastered across my face."

"Come here, you," she laughed, balancing her bowl of salad on the armrest and reaching up to pull him into a tight hug. Kurt's arms wound around her; she was so small. Small like Blaine, he thought with a pang.

"Be strong, okay?" she whispered into his shoulder.

"Okay."

They stayed there hugging for a few long seconds, and when they drew apart Rachel had tears in her eyes.

"Oh god, I'm sorry!" she half laughed, voice catching as she rubbed her eyes vigorously with the back of her hand. "I honestly don't know what's come over me." Kurt smiled at her indulgently and gently nudged her hands away from her face, instead using a hastily grabbed tissue to dab at her tears.

"Don't cry," he warned teasingly, "or you'll make me cry too." Rachel giggled at this, shaking her head as if to clear it and standing up briskly, her crisp demeanor returning all of a sudden. She dusted off her pyjama pants, and looked to Kurt expectantly, a wide smile on her face.

"Shall I make breakfast?"

"If I should impose such a chore on you, then yes please, thank you very much."

He followed a grinning Rachel into the kitchen, finally letting the small smile slip from his face when she wasn't looking. It was tiring on his cheeks to force a perpetual grin. But anything to stop Rachel from worrying excessively. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a few deep breaths before pasting a cheery expression back on his face and walking after her. He didn't understand why his mind was dredging up these memories right now, when life had been going smoothly for such a long time that he almost believed everything was alright again, that _he _was alright again. That he was beginning to forget. He hadn't consciously though about Blaine in such a long while. But that was just wishful thinking, wasn't it? If he was very honest, he had to admit that Blaine was always lurking somewhere at the back of his mind.

When he saw flyers for the revival of _West Side Story, _whenever he passed by a Brooks Brothers store, when the customer in front of him at his favourite coffee shop ordered a Medium Drip, he would have to suppress a flicker of sadness. When he caught reruns of Jersey Shore or The Bachelorette on the television, he would calmly switch channels as if nothing had happened, fully aware of the slight tremble of his thumb as he pressed on the remote. Once, ages ago, when he heard Blackbird on the radio, he had stopped the car at the roadside and gotten out, standing on the sidewalk aimlessly for a full five minutes just to make sure.

But those were just the little things. Whenever he spotted relatively better looking guys in his lectures, he would unconsciously size them up, seeing them not for how they were but how they differed from Blaine. How their hair was a shade lighter than midnight, how their eyes were more green than shifting green-gray-amber. When he talked to any of the aforementioned cute guys, he would note how the lilt of their voices wasn't the cheerful, warm tone he had loved, how their behaviour was far from the way of dapper, prep school boys. He always found them lacking. And sometimes when he woke up, he would lie in bed for a while, unable to move, feeling horribly alone but not willing to acknowledge the reason why.

The direct thought of Blaine still sent a sharp frisson of pain through his chest. Sometimes he imagined a hairline crack running through his heart, one that gaped open a little, painfully, with each pulsation whenever he thought of Blaine. A thin scar mapping the surface of his heart, seemingly knitted back together, but would tear at the seams even more forcefully than before when triggered. _Heartbroken, _he told himself bitterly. _That's what you are._

That night, after a solitary dinner of Chinese take-out (Rachel was out with some friends she had met a few weeks ago at some kind of mixer for aspiring Broadway stars from schools all over New York State – he had no idea what that was about; it sounded highly suspicious to him, but she had been so excited), Kurt went into his room, locked the door behind him and took a deep breath. He was feeling slightly worn out after all the research (reading up on fashion in early nineteenth century Britain) he had done that afternoon for the current school project that would take up most of his time in the next couple of months. It was a fun assignment, with lots of space given to the students to allow for them to "unleash their pent up creativity", but it became more than a little dreary when he had it on his mind for a full eight hours a day.

He slid the frosted glass door of his cupboard open with some difficulty. There were so many pieces of clothing jammed inside, fabric pressed against fabric haphazardly, that he winced and promised himself to sort through all his clothes one day. Or maybe buy a new cupboard; there was space for a new one between the bedside table and the windows.

He knelt down in front of the few drawers at the base of the cupboard. Drawing a small key from the back pocket of his jeans, he slotted the teeth slowly into the lock of the bottom right drawer. He had retrieved the key buried deep in the drawer of his bedside table some time ago, and it still felt cool to the touch against his warm fingers, which were now damp and trembling infinitesimally. With a turn of the key, the lock slid out of place with a small click.

He wondered whether the drawer would creak at all, be hard to pull out after remaining closed for so long. He hadn't touched it in months, after all. He stared at it for a while, as if the intensity of his gaze could will it to slide out, unattended. It was an unremarkable drawer like all others, and if you looked at all of them as a whole, you wouldn't be able to tell its significance. He felt sad to think that so much history, so much of the past could be compressed and simply stowed away in this small, nondescript compartment, left to be forgotten. The edges of the drawer were un-scuffed though, he noted, as compared to those of the others which appeared slightly bruised after being unceremoniously slammed shut whenever he was in a hurry. No, this one had been treated with the utmost care. He felt an unexplainable small twinge of satisfaction, that maybe this drawer was a tad special after all. That it could be identified as more important among the rest, as it should.

Without full control of his movements, he saw his hands reach out and tug the drawer open. There was no creak; it slid open smoothly on rollers, gliding easily along with the pull of his hands. His breath caught as he beheld its contents. Right on top, front and centre, was a yellowing envelope, with tattered edges. Smack in the centre, printed in black ink and small, cramped handwriting was his name: _KURT HUMMEL_. The writing was achingly familiar, and he was reminded dizzyingly of a scattering of words in similar print, scribbled quickly across the back of his palm. Little things like _Come over? _and _I wish I could kiss you right now _and _Missed me? _Followed by _My house at 8 _and _You are so beautiful _and _I did. _Then _I love you _and _I love you _and _I love you. _

He felt dampness at the back of his eyes and sniffed to hold them back. Gently, almost with a sort of reverence, he picked up the topmost envelope. It was small but stuffed tight. The corners were worn out and furry in the way of often handled paper. He drifted his thumb across his name; it was smooth under his touch, not that he had expected anything else. Flipping the envelope around, he lifted the flap and pulled out the sheets of folded letter paper, feeling a bolt of déjà vu. He unfolded them with shaking hands, as he had done countless times before, breathing shallowly.

This was it. The turning point. He didn't know for sure that he would be pulled back into the vortex as before, be engaged in another downward spiral, but he was sure there would be at least some kind of side effects of recalling all this to memory. _But you want that, _his mind whispered unexpectedly. With a shudder, he realized that was true. He had gone too long without unpicking that past that he felt emptied. Too caught up in the harried reality of real life that he had forgotten what it felt like to really _feel_. He wanted that back, regardless of the fact that it would be less than pleasant. He felt a sort of calm settle about him. Was he being unnecessarily masochistic? After all, some would say he had gone through enough heartbreak at his age than most people would ever experience in their lifetime.

But scratch that. He needed this. Letting out a heavy breath at the finality of his decision, he brought the pages up to where he could comfortably read them, and started reading.

When he was finished, he sat back heavily on his heels, feeling very emotionally wrung out. A long time ago, he had been able to memorize the contents of this letter, would be able to recite it word for word if you asked him (not that he ever wanted to). Reading those lines and lines of words scratched painstakingly into the paper helped to drag residual memory from the depths of his mind to the surface, and he realized that he would still be able to deliver certain chunks of it on autopilot, if not every nitty gritty detail of the letter.

He waited for the inevitable possibility of tears, but they didn't come, to his surprise. He stared down at the sheets of paper in his hands, and discovered that he didn't feel as shitty as he had envisioned feeling. He didn't feel that much, to be honest. He probed his mind for what he _did _feel, and first found regret, for what could have been. Renewed little stabs of hurt by the refreshing of when it all began, but that was to be expected. Searching deeper, he identified a calm sea of sadness, but that had been there for a long time, and possibly would be forever. Sadness wasn't very easy to erase, he had found out a long time ago.

But there was also certain fullness. As if a jigsaw puzzle, missing a piece, had finally found that offending little corner and had slotted it back in place, completing the picture. No longer did he feel as empty as before; the hollowness had somewhat disappeared to an extent, leaving him sufficiently satisfied. Maybe this was all he needed. A short trip to a point down memory lane to conclude the journey. Perhaps this would be the end of this stage of his life. One final jolt and he would be able to start afresh, for real this time.

With that thought in his head, he refolded the paper, slotted it back into the envelope, returned it to its place on top of the few small boxes squeezed into the drawer. He slid the drawer shut, turned the key with some finality, tugged that out, and stowed it back in his jeans pocket. He stood up, closed the door of the cupboard and moved to unlock his bedroom door.

He stood in the doorway, surveying the room impassively. The bed was made, the room quietly calm and serene, everything was in place; pristine. As if nothing had happened. But so much had, in that short span of time.

He shut the door and returned to his study.


	2. Chapter 2

The next few weeks went past as usual for Kurt, though maybe on occasion there was an extra spring in his step, his smile a fraction of an inch wider. He laughed more freely with his friends at school, let himself stare a millisecond longer than he usually would at the new kid in one of his regular lectures who had shaggy blond hair and a huge grin (on retrospect, he would realize how much the boy resembled a certain Sam Evans and cringe a little), and when Sierra Hartley invited him for a night out with the students all from his program, he agreed, much to her surprise he thought. The gathering at a rather skanky club had turned out more fun than expected. He chatted and joked around with a couple of close friends, watched a few get hilariously drunk, and generally enjoyed swaying at the edge of the dance floor while watching in amusement as an intoxicated Sierra shimmied, shook her hips, and basically jammed out to the appreciative cheers and whoops of the many guys present, strangers included. He didn't get drunk though – he never got drunk – instead, he nursed a cheap glass of strawberry daiquiri for the entire night.

When Rachel suggested catching a movie one Friday night, out of habit, he suspected, he surprised her by agreeing and going on to book two Gold Class tickets for a midnight showing of a crappy rom-com starring Jessica Szohr and Zac Efron. They spent the journey back home giggling over cheesy lines and the contrived, almost laughable deliverance of what was clearly intended to be a dramatic, tear-jerking scene. He hadn't felt so free in a long while. The next morning, he turned on the television and watched a rerun of the season premiere of Jersey Shore Season 5 – one of his favourite episodes.

The truth was, he felt liberated from reading the letter. It seemed to have provided – to sound clichéd – closure. Perhaps that was all he had needed all this while. Time to distance himself from the past, to get used to the reality of life, then one final refreshing of the end of Before. Because it wasn't the End end, as he had previously recognized it as, but the end of a past era, signifying a new, better one of _now. _Okay, so maybe he was being a little dramatic and overtly flowery with all these fancy analogies, but basically, he felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and it was a greatly pleasant, content feeling. He felt as if he could really start afresh now, and it was with a happy heart that he related all this to Rachel the Friday after their movie night.

They sat snuggled on the couch, the television turned on at low volume, eating ice cream (vegan) straight from the tubs and enjoying each other's company. Rachel had recently gone on a dessert buying spree, and now their refrigerator was well-stocked with various flavours of ice cream (his preferred flavour was cookies and cream; hers was chocolate fudge), several slices of cake (vegan) from Rive Gauche (Rachel had eaten dinner there some time ago), and a box full of macaroons (vegan) from a coffee shop a few streets across from their apartment (it was his favourite coffee shop; he went there at least a few times a week on his way to school).

Rachel was telling him rather excitedly about a mini performance she and a few fellow like minded friends were putting up in a few weeks – it was a sort of spin-off from Wicked, and she was hoping to get the lead as they were inviting a few professionals to come watch and, as she so firmly put it, "they wouldn't be able to enjoy the show to its maximum potential unless she was the one standing centre stage belting out the final notes to close the show as the others danced around her."

"But really," she added thoughtfully, in between licking the back of her spoon, "it's such a great opportunity for me to get talent spotted. Since it's a student-produced show after all. Don't you think so?" she asked as she darted her gaze mildly threateningly up to Kurt.

Kurt nodded vehemently, pursing his lips as if in thought. In reality, he had drifted off halfway when she was going on about stage production and whatnot.

"Since we're on the topic, what about your big project? We haven't talked in a while, since we've each been so busy with school, and I just realized I have no idea what you're planning to do for that, which is highly unusual."

He thought for a moment before answering. "I'm not sure, to be honest. Most of the people in my class have already decided on their theme, but I'm still dithering between a few. The theme of this year's exhibition is Eye on the World: Baring Souls, which gives me almost innumerable possibilities. So I haven't confirmed yet," he concluded with a shrug and a large spoonful of ice cream.

Rachel hummed in response. They sat in silence for a while, enjoying their ice cream.

After a few minutes, Rachel smacked her lips and placed her half-eaten tub of ice cream down on the coffee table. She sat back up on the couch, pulling her knees to her chest and swiveling so that she was directly facing him. She looked at him expectantly.

"How are you faring nowadays, Kurt?" she asked, her tone shades gentler than it was before. He didn't need to be a whiz to know what she was referring to.

"You've been chirpier for the past few weeks, and don't deny it; I can tell, because I'm your best friend," she hastily added.

He rolled his eyes at her last bit but replied her nonetheless. "I feel good, actually."

Rachel raised an eyebrow questioningly at him, but let him continue. He settled his ice cream onto the arm rest so he could talk properly, and grabbed a throw pillow to his chest before he deigned to go on, stalling. It was such an abrupt change in mood.

"That day, when you were out, I… relooked at some of the things from, well, before, and I think that really helped.

"I know I've been acting rather out of it for a ridiculously long time, and I think that was because I never really let go. So that day was, well, closure, you could call it that."

"Closure?"

"Yeah. I've felt better since, somehow. It's only been by a little bit, but somehow that makes all the difference."

"So you've completely let go? Forgotten him?" Rachel asked tentatively.

Kurt shook his head. "No, and I don't think I ever will. I think a part of me will always wonder about Blaine, where he is now, what he's doing with his life, but I've come to terms with knowing that I probably never will find out." Despite all that, he felt his breath hitch slightly as he said his next words, "I've just got to accept that Blaine has probably moved on with his life, most likely ages ago, and I have to do the same with mine."

"And you're letting go?"

"I'm letting go," he replied softly but firmly.

Rachel nodded sagely at her clasped hands, and didn't reply for a while. Then, "I'm happy for you," she said softly.

She looked up, nodding gently, lips pressed together in a small but none the less sincere smile. "I'm really happy for you, Kurt. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to have it all." Her smile widened into a teary grin as she clasped his hand in both of hers. "I'm just really happy for you," she told him in a choked voice, half laughing, voice breaking a little at the end.

He too felt the back of his eyes stinging slightly as he lifted his other hand to rest over hers.

"Thank you. And not just for this, but for everything else. I don't think I've really told you how grateful I am for looking after me all this while. I couldn't have asked for a better friend."

He smiled widely at Rachel, but looked into her eyes seriously to let her know that he really meant all he had said. She giggled at this, releasing her hands from his grasp to press the back of her wrists to her eyes.

"You're my best friend, Kurt. Of course I took care of you. And besides, you were always there for me the first year here, what with all that mess with Finn," she added on a more somber note, at which he gripped her hand more tightly in comfort. "I had to say thank you some way," she teased, grin returning.

"I don't think I could ever thank you enough."

They sat there for a few moments, just clasping hands in the quiet, with the only interruption the faint stirrings from the television, relishing the feeling of knowing that no matter what, there would be someone out there to always pick them up when they fell down, or carry them through tough times. There was a certain comfort in knowing that they wouldn't ever be alone in their problems again.

After a while, Kurt broke the silence.

"We should probably keep our ice cream. It's melting horrifically fast."

Rachel laughed her infectious chuckle at this, but extracted her hand form his and moved to scoop up her tub of ice cream from the coffee table, where it had formed a ring of condensed water droplets where it previously rested. As they moved to the kitchen, Rachel piped up unexpectedly.

"You know, about what you said earlier?"

He hummed absently.

"I think Blaine, wherever he is now, would have had as much trouble moving on as you did."

He almost stopped at this, but didn't.

"He really loved you, Kurt. Just know that," she continued as she rinsed her hands in the sink.

"Yeah," he replied, ignoring the niggling feeling at the back of his mind as he dried his hands.

It was a Monday afternoon, and Kurt was annoyed. He tapped his foot impatiently, standing in the snaking queue of Snice, constantly glancing at his watch.

1:17pm.

It was a crazy day at school, and he was exhausted after managing to catch only one hour's worth of sleep last night. There had been proposals due, theses to write, and he felt very wrung out. That was why he was in line for coffee at his favourite coffee shop, Snice, which was about a ten minute walk from campus. He would normally never come to Snice on a Monday afternoon, when it was the most packed, but he was in desperate need for a pick-me-up, though it seemed as if he might not be able to manage even that, seeing as he needed to get back for a class at 1:30pm. He groaned loudly, causing the middle aged woman in front of him to turn around and stare. He glared back defiantly.

1:19pm.

His bright red Doc Martens were scuffed, he noticed with dissatisfaction, as he looked down at his shoes, mentally reminding himself to get them cleaned up during the weekend.

To his pleasure, the queue started moving relatively quickly, and soon he was ordering a grande non-fat mocha from Ana, the friendly barista who always smiled at him when he came over.

"Busy day?"

"How did you know," he quipped with a wry smile.

"You look dead-beat, and vaguely ill." She clucked her tongue reprovingly. "Take care of yourself, alright? I wouldn't want my favourite customer to stop coming because he collapsed from overwork."

"Favourite customer? I'm flattered."

"No one has quite as funny anecdotes as you do, honey. I feel cheered up whenever I see you come into the shop."

"Aw, thank you! Now I feel similarly cheered up. Ana, you just made my day."

He accepted his cup of coffee with a lighter heart, immediately raising it to his lips for a sip, waving goodbye to Ana with his free hand. He hissed as it scalded his tongue. His phone buzzed. Upon drawing it out from his back pocket, he realized how many texts he had received.

_Are you coming? We're at the Block C Mac lab. –Sierra _

_ HURRY Kurt, Prof. A is asking where you are. I had to cover for you. –S _

_ Where the fuck are you? _

_ God, Kurt. I told him you couldn't come cos of personal stuff. He wasn't impressed. _

"Shit," he mumbled under his breath. He had totally forgotten about the consultation session he and Sierra had arranged with their professor about a joint project they were about to embark on together. God, Sierra would be at his throat when he got back. Now Prof. A had a bad first impression of him, and they hadn't even started the project yet. The remaining of it would be a nightmare; he had heard about how Prof. A didn't take kindly to irresponsible students. He let out a groan of annoyance at his own irresponsibility, quelling the sense of guilt rising at the back of his mind. The cheery mood he had acquired after talking to Ana had disappeared completely, and now he felt all hot and bothered. He took another angry sip of coffee, wincing as it burned down his throat. He quickened his footsteps, keeping his head down at his phone screen as he hastily tried to type a suitably apologetic reply to Sierra.

Then, to his annoyance, he walked straight into someone, splashing his coffee onto both himself and the other person; for a split second before he glanced down, he registered how odd it was that the stranger was wearing sunglasses.

He swore vehemently, jumping back to prevent more coffee from dripping onto his coat. The hot brown liquid was slowly staining the front of his brand new ivory Marc Jacobs coat. Letting out a frustrated cry – _why _was today going so shittily for him?—he stretched out his arm and tried, failingly, to clean away some of the coffee with the back of his hand. That was when he remembered the person he had bumped into.

He looked up, opening with an apologetic (or as apologetic as he could sound while simultaneously trying containing his infuriation at the turn of today's events) "I'm so sorry," but the words died in his throat as he saw who he had knocked into.

Blaine.

He couldn't help the strangled sound that escaped his lips. It was Blaine. It was Blaine Blaine Blaine Blaine Blaine. Standing right in front of him. Some part of him knew that he should say something, but all he could do was stare. There was a strange rushing sound in his ears, and he swore he could hear the erratic pounding of his heart. There were odd swooping sensations in his stomach. His mind was racing.

How long had he waited for this moment? How many times had he envisioned such a scenario, an epic reunion of them both? The numerous imagined encounters had played out in countless different ways, some ending in a beautiful lip-lock as they vowed their undying love for each other, some opening into a furious, heated fight as Kurt screamed at Blaine for putting him through what he had. He had never, however, pictured their meeting in a crowded coffee shop amidst the Monday afternoon buzz. This was surreal, so surreal that for a moment he wondered if he was dreaming. He swept aside that theory a moment later, because if he was dreaming, he couldn't possibly be feeling all he was at that moment. Part of him wanted to yell, part of him wanted to burst into tears and ask why why why, but mostly he wanted to throw himself into Blaine's arms, surrender himself to the familiar warmth and sob into Blaine's shoulder that finally, _finally, _they were reunited. There were so many things he wanted to do, to say, he didn't know where to start. He didn't even know if he could; his throat felt constricted.

Belatedly, he realized Blaine was saying something.

"—Damn, god, shit, I'm so sorry, shit I should probably –" and his voice was almost exactly like Kurt had remembered, that magical rise and dip of his words, his voice so deep and rounded like an actor's. He didn't know if the tingle across his chest was real or imagined.

"Blaine?" Kurt choked out. He had finally found his voice, though it was hoarse, faint and thrumming with disbelief.

Blaine stopped talking and looked up.

Looking back, Kurt knew that this was the moment when he should have suspected something was wrong, realized that Blaine wasn't really Blaine, not anymore, but he was so overwhelmed that he couldn't stop himself.

"Blaine," he whispered, and then tears were streaming down his cheeks, because this was real, not just some deluded daydream or hallucination, and he had waited for so _long, _and he moved forward and–

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

Just like that, for the second time in his life, Kurt's heart broke.

He couldn't breathe, and the rush of blood in his ears had vanished.

"What?" he asked dumbly, his voice breathy and trembling.

"I'm so sorry, but I don't think I quite remember you…?" Blaine replied quizzically, still sounding rather apologetic.

"What?" Kurt repeated stupidly. The tears had stopped flowing, and now he felt a deep-seated confusion, which masked the growing tightness in his chest. For a split second he wondered insanely why Blaine didn't take off those ridiculous shades, maybe if he did he could see Kurt properly and realize who he was looking at…

Blaine's expression had transformed somewhat into bewilderment. "I can't, you know, yeah," he said almost with embarrassment as he gestured to his sunglasses and then down to his left side. Kurt followed the direction to which he was gesturing. There was a cup of coffee clutched in Blaine's left hand, but what he had failed to notice the first time was the thin black leash looped around Blaine's wrist, that extended to a collar encircling the furry neck of a large, pale yellow dog which was sitting obediently on its haunches by Blaine's feet.

For a wild moment, Kurt felt an urge to point out that dogs weren't allowed in the coffee shop – this was _New York_, after all – then he realized what Blaine was actually gesturing to. The dog had some kind of harness-like contraption around its middle, connected to straps around its forelegs. There was a sort of handle reaching from the dog's middle where the harness-thing was. Kurt's eyes zeroed in on the words printed on a strip of blue cloth attached to the strap crossing the middle of its back.

_Seeing Eye dog._

Dazed, Kurt shifted his gaze back up to Blaine's face, where the pair of sunglasses was perched atop his nose, obscuring his eyes. With a sharp intake of breath, he understood.

"Oh, my god," he breathed, shaking his head slowly, "No."

Blaine, distracted, didn't seem to hear him. Kurt watched, mutely, as he reached into his pocket and fished out a five dollar bill. Blaine extended his hand forward, and Kurt automatically reciprocated, taking the note from Blaine's grasp.

"No," he mumbled again, still staring staring staring at the shades as if his gaze could penetrate through the plastic.

"I'm sorry," Blaine said for what must have been the millionth time, "I have to rush off to somewhere. I'm so sorry for bumping into you, I hope you're not hurt, buy yourself another cup with that. I have to go. I'm sorry, goodbye." With that, he fumbled for the handle-like thing his dog was wearing. When he had a firm grip on the bar, the dog rose meekly to its paws, they both turned, and Blaine walked out of Kurt's life once again.

Kurt stood frozen in the middle of the coffee shop, unmoving, unfeeling. In all of his imagined scenarios, this had never in his closest dreams been one of them.

Then, something kicked in. His head snapped up to scan the crowd, but Blaine was lost among the huge group of college kids who had just entered the room. He felt himself moving, pressing through the throng to much annoyed squeaks from the pushed students. He burst out onto the sidewalk, ignoring the harsh autumn breeze that whipped across his cheeks. Desperately, he cast his eyes around. Then he saw, by the roadside, a figure slide into a taxi, following him an almost-white dog jumping into the cab.

"Stop!" he screamed, running towards the side of the road, but it was too late. The cab swerved away from the sidewalk and sped down the road. He stopped running, head bent down to his knees, gasping for breath, feeling the judgmental stares of passers-by but not quite caring. Absently, he realized he was still holding his coffee cup. When he had caught his breath, he straightened up and stared down the now empty road.

Blaine was gone.

_Dear Kurt,_

_Perhaps by now you would have found something amiss, noticed that something isn't quite right. It pains me now to be writing this, but I can only imagine how you might feel reading it, and I am so so sorry. Kurt… there isn't quite any good way to pen down what I'm planning to say, so I'm just gonna do it straight out. I'm leaving, forever. Don't try to look for me, you won't find me. I can't tell you any more than that, and it hurts me so much to have to keep this from you. So I'm saying goodbye, one final time. _

_It's funny how I foolishly thought it would be easier to leave before you returned from New York, thinking it would be better for both of us to not have fresh memories of being together; now it seems ridiculously stupid because now it feels like it may hurt a billion times more without a final kiss, a final touch of your fingers on my face, a final night together to tide me over the times ahead. But I don't think I would have been able to behave normally in the time between meeting you and leaving, and so this is good in a way that I won't ruin the last memories we have together. I want you to remember the happy, in love us. And also, I've made my decisions and my plans, and I have to stick to them; if I veer even slightly off course I'm afraid I won't be able to go through with them and that would just defeat the purpose of all this. _

_I know you must be feeling very lost and confused right now, so I want to make this clear. This has nothing to do with you. Which sounds silly even to me, because doesn't my life revolve around yours? It has since that day all those years back when we met on the stairs at Dalton, when the silly old oblivious me couldn't keep my eyes off you as I sang Teenage Dream – because I had never met someone as beautiful, as magical as you. We are linked together in a special, sacred way that perhaps can never be tainted, even twenty years down the road when we are leading our own lives, perhaps even happily married by then (if the world has become as liberal by then). And I can almost hear the catch in your breath as you read that sentence, because, yes, that is the truth: twenty years down the road, that's the time we might stay apart, and even longer. _

_But I digress. My point is, my leaving isn't in any part your fault. Clichéd, isn't it? "It's not you, it's me." Remember how I always laughed when we watched movies together and that line came up? Because it's almost never just one person's fault; it takes two hands to clap in a true relationship. Well, it's ironic that I'm using it in this situation, because it hasn't ever rung more true than right now. My departure has nothing to do with us, with our relationship, it's something else on my side, something bigger than the both of us, bigger than our love, and I won't stand to put you through that. You must be hating me now for being so frustratingly cryptic, and I don't blame you. I hate myself to, for doing this to us. _

_I'm scared, Kurt. I'm terrified of what lies ahead. Try as I might, I could never imagine a future without you, and I still can't now. But it's happening, for real. I don't think I could adequately express how much I loathe myself for this, for leaving you hanging and making you go through all this shit alone. But you are strong, and you are fierce; there's no one quite like you. _

_I love you so much. I love how you're always so confident and snarky on the outside, but how you're ultimately so tender and honest when you let your guard down. I love how much you care about those you love, and how you're always ready to forgive. I love how you never let anything or anyone crush your spirit and bring you down. And maybe most of all, I love that you love me. You take me for all my strange little quirks, the messed-up parts of me, for all my imperfections. You open yourself to all of that, and love me for everything that I am, without question, and maybe that's why it's so impossibly hard to be doing this. Sometimes I feel almost unworthy of being loved by someone as incredible as you are. I can be me when I'm with you, and I'm afraid that I'll never get the chance to again. _

_But you will. You are amazing, and beautiful, and unbelievably strong, and I know that one day you'll find someone else perhaps a fraction as worthy of you to love again, with as much conviction as I know you'll get through this. It will be tough, no doubt, but you will, because you are you, and the Kurt Hummel I know and love can overcome everything. And you have your father, Carole, Finn, Rachel, all your friends from Ohio and NY. They will help you through this. You don't need me. It may be presumptuous of me to think that you think you do, but nonetheless I assure you that life without me will go on. So don't spend too long mourning my absence, don't cling to the memory of me for too much a time. I don't want you to live in the shadow of what could have been._

_My last wish of you: let go. It feels like my heart is shattering as I write this, but it's perhaps the most important part of this letter. Don't spend too long holding on. Move on with life, and maybe it's a bit too much to beg you to forget me – I know I never will – but maybe, hopefully, someday I'll be no more than a half-forgotten shadow at the back of your mind, rising to the forefront of your thoughts only at the rarest of moments. I want you to be happy, Kurt. That is all I ask. Hypocritical of me, since I'm the one person causing your pain, but I have no other choice. Please try to understand._

_We vowed to love each other for all of eternity, to grow old and grey together, and I'm letting go of all of that. I hope you can too. I wish you the brightest of futures, Kurt; Broadway, movies, maybe even fashion if you end up there in an unexpected twist. I'll be watching out for your name framed in lights, or printed on thousands and thousands of playbills hung on the walls of other aspiring little kids whom you are inspiration to. I'll look out for your face in the papers, in magazines, the sound of your voice on the radio. Don't let anything or anyone stand in your way to achieving fame, Kurt, especially this. You will do great things, and hopefully I'll be able to witness them._

_I know we swore to never say goodbye to each other, but this isn't a promise I can keep. Just know that I always loved you, Kurt._

_All the best,_

_Blaine_


	3. Chapter 3

Kurt didn't know how he managed to get through the rest of the day. After remaining unmoving on the sidewalk for at least five minutes, the rational and practical part of him kicked in and he made his way back to campus in a daze. He arrived late for his lecture, earning himself a dirty look from the lecturer and several other students who were annoyed at having their precious lecture interrupted. He apologized flatly and found an empty seat. He stared blankly ahead at the screen, reading the tinny words on the powerpoint and not understanding anything. There seemed to be a sort of buzzing in his brain. He wondered vaguely if this was what being dyslexic felt like. Reading words and having them not make any sense. When the lecture ended two hours later, he left with no idea what it had been about.

He met Sierra, and waited in silence as she laid into him, starting with angry hissing about how _I was so embarrassed, he kept looking at me and raising his eyebrows and asking where my partner was _– she emphasized the word "partner" as if it were some sort of dirty word – and ended up screeching that _if you don't want to commit to this project, fine, please find another partner, I can complete it myself. _He replied her hollowly on autopilot when she had finished, expressing his sorrow at his irresponsibility and could she please give him another chance?, he would make sure he pulled his weight for the project in the future. She looked dissatisfied at the lack of emotion in his apology – and perhaps he hadn't looked contrite enough? –, but sniffed and accepted it grudgingly before spinning around and stalking away haughtily. Kurt noted apathetically that he would have much work to do to get Sierra to behave amicably towards him again, or their project would turn out in disaster.

He attended his history of fashion lecture, which was usually his favourite, but today for the life of him he couldn't understand why. Did he really need to know about the reason for the popularity of tea gowns in the 1970s? What good would that do? He stared at photos and photos and photos of women dressed in ridiculously frilly gowns with huge poufy trains that dragged on the ground and suppressed the urge to stand up and tell the lecturer that all those dresses were hideous, the women who wore them must have been out of their minds. When the class ended, he was the first to leave; he didn't need to pack up, he hadn't taken any notes.

His phone buzzed and he looked at it numbly. It was an alert. _Dinner with Andrew _he read. Who the hell was Andrew? He gazed at the screen blankly for a few long beats, his mind coming up with nothing. Why would he be having dinner with this Andrew dude? He racked his brain but came up with nothing. Without pause, he slid his thumb across the screen to unlock the phone, and typed out a quick message: _Hi Andrew. I'm sorry, but I can't make it for our dinner today, something cropped up. I apologize for the late notice. –Kurt. _He reread the text briefly, all the while wondering since when had he talked like that? When he scrolled through his contacts, he was vaguely pleased to find an Andrew Hunter. He sent the text, and slid his phone back into his pocket. There. Done. Stranger Andrew had been dealt with. He would try to figure out who he was later, when he could think more clearly.

Kurt made his way home. The sky was slowly changing colour, turning from blue to a dazzling hue of pink red orange, an unusual sight in New York City, he noted, and waited for the artistic side in him to react to the remarkable beauty of the dusk, but felt nothing. When he entered his apartment, it was dark. He turned on the lights and sat himself down at the dining table. Rachel wasn't back yet, and he wasn't in any mood for cooking today, which meant take-out for dinner. He hoped she hadn't gone out again. He knew that he should probably order something, so that when Rachel came back there would be food ready, but he couldn't seem to recall where the take-out menus were kept.

After a while, he dug in his back pocket and pulled out a small scrap of paper. His hands shook as he flattened it out with his fingers. The number on the taxi's license plate was scribbled messily on it, the ink smudged. He had memorized it as he stared at the disappearing back of the taxi. He clumsily pressed the number of the taxi company into the keypad of his phone, taking three tries before he managed to enter the number correctly; his fingers seemed cold and twitchy today. He held his breath as chirpy muzak filled his ears.

"If you would like to call a cab to your destination, please press 1. If you would like to…" It went on. Kurt drummed the fingers of his free hand nervously on the table top.

"If you would like to reach our customer service counter, please press 5." He keyed in five very deliberately, making sure that his fingers were steady. The ringing started, and he felt his throat go dry.

"Good evening, this is Suzanne speaking. How may I assist you today?" Her voice was dull and flat, as if she had been doing this all day, was bored out of her mind and couldn't wait to get home. He didn't blame her. She sounded young; perhaps she had a boyfriend or maybe girlfriend waiting for her at home to welcome her with a peck on the lips and a whispered "I love you". Maybe there would be a homemade dinner ready at the table, where they would laugh and giggle as they shared stories of their respective days at work. Maybe they would fall asleep in front of the TV, arms around each other, dreaming of their future together.

He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

"Hello? Is anyone on the line?" He could hear Suzanne's barely contained annoyance. He tried to say something again but the back of his throat felt blocked up.

"Fuck you," she muttered, and sighed heavily, as if she were making to put down the phone.

"Stop!" he cried, and he could hear her little "oh" of surprise.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, how can I help you?" Her embarrassment was evident in her overtly polite tone. She was probably praying he didn't complain about her swearing to her boss or something, and he wondered whether there were really people with so little else to do in their lives that they would bother to do such a thing. He didn't bother to correct her "ma'am", he was used to it.

"Um, I would like to, um, enquire about a taxi that I saw earlier today?"

"What? Oh. Huh? Right, okay. What about?"

"I was, um, someone I knew got into this taxi, at about lunchtime, and I wasn't fast enough to stop the cab, and it drove away… So I was wondering if I could find out where this taxi dropped off the passenger."

There was silence from the other line, apart from a faint crackling.

He could hear Suzanne take a very audible deep breath. "Ma'am, I'm afraid we can't divulge such information about our passengers. And anyway to begin with, we don't even have the taxi license plate number—"

"I have it," he interrupted.

She continued without missing a beat, sounding a lot more professional than she did when the conversation had first started. "—and even if we did, we don't have records of the passengers we pick up. _And _coming back to my first point, we can't just give you information like that. We value the privacy of our passengers." The last line sounded as if it had come out of the press pack.

"But I know this guy," he told her desperately, his hand curling more tightly around the phone, "he's my friend."

"I'm very sorry, I can't—"

"Please! At least give me the contact of the driver."

"No!" she almost yelled into the receiver. There was a beat, and she continued, in a more controlled tone, though he could identify the irritation seeping through her words, "I'm very sorry ma'am, but as I said before, we are not allowed to reveal this sort of information, and even if we put you in touch with the driver, I highly doubt he would be able to remember—"

"At least let me try! I'm sure he would be able to remember my friend, he's—" His voice caught and he snapped his mouth shut.

He couldn't bring himself to say it, the word _blind_, because if he did, it would make everything real and he would have to acknowledge for the first time today that it was true, Blaine was blind, Blaine was blind Blaine was blind Blaine was blind, and the final thought of that almost brought him to tears. With a roar, all the thoughts he had locked out of his head since their meeting this afternoon were rushing into his head.

Was Blaine even Blaine now? Why couldn't he remember Kurt, not at all? Had someone kidnapped Blaine and tortured him and somehow simultaneously erased all his memories of Kurt? Was it some sort of elaborate act? But deep down Kurt knew it wasn't. Did he have no memory of Kurt at all? What about all that time spent together, talking about inconsequential things, talking about their future, just talking? How about the afternoons spent side by side in the mall, in their homes, sitting always so close in the choir room? And what about all their hand-holds, their kisses, their nights spent pressed up against each other, the warmth of Blaine's breath on his neck? Were they all gone?

Was Blaine permanently blind? Totally blind? Could he not see even just a little bit? He remembered how much Blaine had loved the brilliant hues of the sunset. Could he still admire the colours of the sky anymore? Was all of that gone, stolen away from him by some cruel force?

And the worst of all, why had he let him slip away again?

"Hello? Ma'am? Hello, are you still there?" The girl on the line was talking.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm still here," and he realized that he was crying, tears running freely down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

"Look," the girl said. Because she wasn't Suzanne, Suzanne was a vibrant girl with hopes and dreams and loves, and he didn't know anything about any of that. He only knew her voice, and maybe her age, and that wasn't enough at all to say he really knew her, was it? Just like how it seemed all Blaine knew of Kurt was his voice, and also maybe his age, and that really wasn't anything, just a few silly little details that Blaine had surely already forgotten, erased from his mind as he went on his brand new Kurt-less life.

He was sobbing now, loudly, gasping for breath, and he felt so _embarrassed_, because the poor girl on the other end of the line.

"Oh god," he heard her say. "Oh, god. Look, ma'am, I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid we can't assist you in any way." She spoke more kindly now, "I'm sorry, and I hope you manage to find your friend." There was a pause, then the beep of the line being hung up. He kept the phone pressed to his ear, listening to the beeping that signified emptiness on the other end.

"He's not my friend," he said tremulously. "I loved him. He was the first boy I ever really loved, and he loved me back, and we were so good together. So, so good.

"He loved me and I loved him and that was all that mattered. Because it didn't matter that we were both boys, that the word _gay _was taboo in Lima, what was important was that our love could never be broken.

"Even when I graduated and he didn't, even when I left for New York and he remained in crappy Ohio, we stayed strong. We texted, we called, we Skyped each other every day. We managed it, the long distance relationship thing. And I continued loving him, and I'm sure he continued loving me too."

His voice was coming in ragged bouts now, his breathing harsh and noisy through the tears. He brought his hand down slowly to rest on the table, staring at the screen. _Call ended, _the screen flashed.

"But when I came back home after my first year of college, he was gone. Leaving nothing but a letter. His family was gone, their house sold. I searched, I searched for so _goddamn long, _and I still couldn't find him. I looked for him so hard — even when my dad and all my friends told me to give up, I still looked. And I still couldn't find him."

Then his words were almost incoherent, tumbling over one another as he spoke, choking on his tears and gasping them out in between breaths.

"I miss him so much. I know I seem fine on the outside, but I'm not. I'm dying every day. I miss the way he says my name, as if it's the most important, valued word in the world. I miss the way he always knew what to say to cheer me up. I miss the way his hands felt around mine. I miss the way his lips felt on mine." Here his voice broke, and he let the phone slip from his grasp to drop with a gentle clatter onto the tabletop.

"And I found him. I found him but he didn't remember me, not at all, he had forgotten everything we had. And now I've lost him again, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to get him back."

Kurt stopped then to catch his breath, gasping, uncaring of the salty wetness running ceaselessly down his cheeks.

"I miss you, Blaine," he whispered brokenly into the quiet of the empty apartment. He pretended that Blaine was standing across the table from him, looking the same way he had looked the last time Kurt saw him, young and beautiful and whole. His imaginary Blaine smiled gently, and reached to clasp Kurt's hand. He imagined he could feel the warmth on the back of his hand, the slow rubbing of Blaine's thumb across his knuckles. It almost felt real.

"I miss you so much," Kurt whispered to him hoarsely, "I need you."

The figure faded away, and he was cold and alone.

"I need you."

He rested his head down on the table, barely registering how the cold table top pressed into his cheek uncomfortably, and cried and cried and cried.


	4. Chapter 4

The next thing he consciously remembered was the feeling of being tucked into a warm bed, and a dry palm stroking across his forehead. "Blaine," he mumbled instinctively, and when he opened his eyes and saw Rachel looking anxiously down at him, he felt something sink in his stomach and he turned his head away from her, ashamed.

The second thing he remembered was realizing that he hurt everywhere, his head, his arms; his heart. Every fibre of his weary, beaten being ached.

"Kurt," Rachel began, sounding upset.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position and winced as his head throbbed painfully while he adjusted to his surroundings. He was in his bedroom, still wearing the clothes he had worn to school. The lights were dimmed and the curtains drawn so he could see the night sky outside. He felt drained and tired and defeated, and wasn't in the mood for any more talking. "Please, Rachel," he croaked out, "I'd like to be alone."

"But—"

"Please," he repeated more sharply, knowing full well he was being unnecessarily mean, but he couldn't quite think about that too now. He reserved the guilty twinge in his mind for later.

Rachel didn't leave. She hovered at his bedside and wrung her hands together fretfully. He still didn't meet her eye, and stared down at the duvet, studying the intricate trimming of the edge as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

"Kurt, I'm worried, I don't understand, I thought everything was—" she rushed.

"I said to please leave," he cut across her flatly.

"I want to help, I—"

"Get out." His voice was like a gunshot in the stillness of the room. Still she didn't move.

"No, I'm not leaving you here alone—"

"Get out!" He screamed, snapping his head up to glare into her eyes. They were glistening, but he didn't care, it was all Rachel's fault for being so pushy, he thought savagely.

"Why are you being so mean? I'm only trying to help," she defended, voice raised and incredulous.

"If you wanted to help, you would let me alone," he retaliated immediately, tone steely but controlled. He wondered if she could identify the barely suppressed anger swimming beneath his words.

"I won't!" she almost yelled. "I want to know what happened, what was so horrible that made you become… like _this_ again!"

"I don't want to talk about it, okay?" he shot back, seething. Why couldn't she understand that this was him, all him, this was none of her business and he wanted time alone to think and wallow in his own sorrows, not have some air-our-all-your-troubles-and-let's-make-sure-Kurt-Hummel-isn't-broken-or-crazy-and-crying-every-two-seconds talk.

"You can't keep everything bottled up, Kurt!" she snapped. Just like that, his temper reached the end of its line and exploded in a furious outburst.

"I can! I can and I have, for the past I don't know how long! Do you think, that when Blaine left, I was actually, really and truly, comforted by you? Do you think anything you did _really _helped? Because it didn't! Everything, all the pain and the hurt and the heartache was all me. I had to go through all of that on my own, climb out from the mess by myself. You think you were some sort of hero, saving me and all that? Well, you didn't. And you won't be able to now, so stop trying to play hero again." Once the words left his mouth, he knew he would regret them later, knew that it all wasn't true, he wasn't thinking straight. Later, when he was feeling calmer and less agitated. But now he was so exhausted and angry that he could barely see straight, much less worry about injuring Rachel Berry's fragile ego.

Rachel was in tears, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. "I can't believe it," she was saying, "I can't believe that after all I did for you, you aren't even grateful at all. I was here for you when no one else was, Kurt, I was the _only one _who stood by you. And I'm trying again to help you now, and you don't even care that—"

"Fine! If you really want to know then fine! I saw Blaine, okay? Happy?" he spat tearfully – because yes, he was crying too, in anger or misery he didn't know.

There was a pregnant silence, in which the only sound was of his heavy breathing. He watched as Rachel's eyes widened in shock and mouth dropped open. He sank back onto the bed, all the fight gone out of him, staring down at the duvet. It was just too much effort to be angry any longer, and to be honest he had forgotten what he had even been mad about. When Rachel recovered, she spoke.

"Blaine?" she echoed disbelievingly, and she too seemed to have forgotten all traces of their argument. He nodded, suddenly too tired to speak. "But how? Where?"

"I was out for coffee at Snice, and I saw him. Or well, he bumped into me." He swallowed heavily and felt his adams apple bob uncomfortably in his throat.

"Blaine, he… he couldn't remember me," he said hoarsely, voice choking on the last bit. There. He had said it.

"What?" She looked confused, as if still waiting for the information to fully sink in.

"I don't know," he replied quietly. "He didn't seem to know who I was, or remember anything about me." It hurt to say it out loud, but not as bad as it had been earlier admitting to himself that it was true, Blaine didn't remember him at all.

"He doesn't know me," he said flatly, with a humorless laugh. He looked up and met her eyes. "He doesn't know me at all. After all that worrying, that dwelling on if we would ever meet again – well, there wasn't any point, was there?"

Rachel sat down heavily on the corner of the bed, looking dazed. He wondered how she was taking the news, what she was thinking. After all, she and Blaine had been pretty good friends back in high school, when she was still an obnoxious eighteen year old and he was, well, _there_.

"But… how?"

Kurt shrugged his shoulders in a pathetic attempt at nonchalance.

"Kurt… I'm so sorry." Rachel floundered around for words, a hardly ever seen side to her. "I don't, I can't—" She took a deep breath to calm herself.

"And what happened? Where is he now? What's he doing? What does he look like? What's he like now?"

So many questions. It had been such a good opportunity to get them all answered, a perfect time to grab hold of Blaine and sit him down and _talk_, find out how he was living now, find out how his life had been since the last time they saw each other. But Kurt, stupidly, had let them all slip away because he was too much of an idiot to just say, "hey, can we talk?"

So he just shook his head sadly at Rachel and said, "he's blind."

In another time and place, it would have been almost comical to watch how Rachel's eyes bugged and her jaw dropped open, the sharp intake of breath.

"…what?" she spluttered, sounding disbelieving. Her face was twisted into incredulity and confusion, and she squeaked out some sort of laugh as if she wasn't sure she had heard properly. Kurt thought that he should probably feel _something _at this point, some sort of indescribable sadness at the cruel reality that yes, Blaine, in one way or another, was blind, but he felt emotionless. There was just a general numbness running through his head, and he _knew _he felt horrible; he just didn't feel it. And he wasn't even making sense right now, so drained and weary was he.

Before him, Rachel seemed to be struggling with her own thoughts, blinking rapidly and opening then closing her mouth as if to say something but nothing could come out. He noticed the tears sliding down her cheeks, and he wondered if she even knew she was crying. She was mumbling incoherently under her breath, and that was when he realized how shocking this must be for her, having all this information unloaded onto her like this. Yes, she and Blaine had been relatively close; hell, they had written songs together before, a privilege awarded unto Blaine because Rachel deemed his talent worthy enough to match hers. It must be torture to hear all this.

So Kurt wriggled out from under the duvet, moving to her side and taking hold of her hand.

"Hey," he said gently, "hey, it's okay, you hear me?"

Of course it wasn't going to be okay.

"I'm sure Blaine's alright, I'm sure he's doing well wherever he is."

He didn't know this for sure, though, and that was a painful thought to bear.

He wrapped his arms around her tiny frame, and waited until she let her head fall onto his shoulder and her body started shaking with sobs. It was strange, how their positions were switched around this time, with Rachel being the one hurt and he being the comforter.

But he was determined; if he couldn't prevent himself from falling apart this time, at least he could make sure Rachel Berry didn't.

"Nothing's going to change."

But everything would change. With a sudden jolt of clarity, he knew what he had to do – because Kurt wasn't letting Blaine go again, not this time.

In the days that followed, Rachel called the taxi company. A billion times, it felt like. She dialed again and again, getting the same reply each time. _I'm sorry ma'am, but we can't help you there. _She presented different variations of her argument each time, with increasing frustration and varying tones of voice (from sugary-sweet to snarling into the receiver), but to no avail. _Well_, Kurt thought drily, _now no one could say that Rachel Berry wasn't persuasive. _

He knew Rachel thought he didn't know she was doing this, but he wasn't an imbecile, and also he didn't quite want to hurt her feelings by revealing to her that her efforts, however well-meant, were awfully poorly concealed – she always mysteriously disappeared off into the bathroom at times, and after a occasions of this, he had snuck up and pressed his ear against the smooth, cool surface of the toilet door.

"—please, this is extremely important, it's _vital_ that I find out—"

"I demand that you tell me—"

"For god's sake, this is a matter of _life and death_, why are you being so stubborn?"

It didn't take long to figure out what she was trying to do. And although most of him wanted to tell her to stop, it wouldn't help anything, and it definitely wasn't giving the poor phone operators at the company much joy, another tiny part stopped him from doing so. He still clung on to that tiny (oh, but how thin a thread) hope that perhaps Rachel's persuasions would finally get through, that a kindly phone operator would take pity on them and contact the taxi driver – he refused to think about the fact that the driver would most probably have completely forgotten Blaine, and that thus contacting him would be of no use whatsoever.

So Kurt let her go on with those misguided calls, saying nothing but feeling slightly guilty at keeping his thoughts from Rachel. But then again he never seemed to be in much of a mood to discuss Blaine with her, and neither did she with him. (On a side-note: he had apologized profusely for his unmerited outburst the other day – she forgave him easily, but still he felt that his apology was woefully inadequate) They both skirted around the topic, being overly polite with each other, and when they chatted it was about trivial things like who was going to get the groceries this week or anecdotes from their respective school lives. Rachel never brought up Blaine during their dinners together; he never sat her down for a heart-to-heart. They were way more cautious with their words than before, balancing on both ends of a scale, as if one small slip of the tongue or thoughtless blabber would cause the scales to tip and the precarious serenity of their life would be upturned yet again. So they tip-toed around the topic.

But of course, he hadn't given up.

He wasn't going to let Blaine go that easily.

The day after his meeting with Blaine, he returned to Snice for his (it was becoming) daily cup of coffee. There was a strange feeling in his stomach as he stepped through the door, but not without first scanning the room to make sure a certain someone wasn't there (he registered the absence with regret). It was with slight trepidation that he joined the line, and he kept feeling increasingly uneasy, darting glances to the door every time it jangled as someone walked in or out of Snice. When he reached the front of the line, he was pleased to see that it was Ana at the counter again, and felt less tensed up for the first time since he entered the shop.

Clearly she didn't share the same sentiment, however. Her face creased into a worried frown when she saw him.

"What's wrong, Ana?" Kurt asked apprehensively.

"You!" she replied sharply. "What happened yesterday, honey?"

He could feel his heart speed up, and forced himself to keep calm. "Oh, just an old friend."

"The blind dude? Oh god, sorry!" she added, looking horrified with herself, when he winced at the word the 'blind'. She appeared to randomly punch numbers on the cash register in her fluster, and tutted at it in annoyance.

"It's fine, Ana," he told her with a wan smile.

"But why did you look so freaked out yesterday! I was watching from here, and you looked so terrible, and then you started crying! I almost walked up to check if you were okay, but again, the stupid queue was so long and I couldn't just leave the counter, even if it was for the sake of a dear friend."

He felt touched. "That's far too nice of you, Ana… and thanks so much for caring, but really, it's nothing, I hadn't seen him in a while, and yesterday was just a little shock is all…" _Understatement of the century. _Seeing her eyebrow raised skeptically, he hurriedly continued to prevent her from breaking into another spiel. "Funnily enough, that's what I need to ask you about. About my… friend. I didn't get to, um, talk to him much yesterday, so I was wondering if he told you anything? What he does, where he lives, even?"

Ana was shaking her head vehemently even before he finished. "He was in a hurry, so I didn't bother making conversation. But the poor man, though; has he always been blind?" she asked in a hushed whisper. Trust Ana to always shoot right to the point without faltering.

"I," Kurt began. "No. No, he wasn't always. Um. Blind."

Ana's face twisted into one of compassion. "Poor thing," she sighed, "it must suck having your sight stolen from you. He must have been through so much. Oh, but I really hope you do find him!"

Kurt struggled to bite back a retort at this; Blaine's life was his and his alone; no one knew what he had gone through and hence should keep their judgments to themselves. And Ana's comment sounded horribly condescending, even though Kurt knew for a fact he had been thinking those exact same words repeatedly in his own head; it was just a different (and not entirely pleasant) experience knowing that someone else felt that way. Blaine was _his. _No one else was allowed to pass judgment. Instead, he continued with the lines he had prepared the last night.

"And that brings me back to what I was going to say from the start. If you ever see him again, could you tell me, please? I need to find him."

"Sure thing, honey." Her eyes softened and she reached out a slim hand to pat his arm. It was oddly comforting. "But what do I say to him?"

Kurt floundered for a moment. He hadn't gotten this far before; mostly, he had just focused on the 'finding Blaine' part and ignored the rest. "Tell him an old friend is looking for him," he finally decided. An old friend indeed.

Ana squeezed his forearm before handing over his cup of coffee. "Of course. And I'll tell my colleagues too," she promised, "they can help to look out as well."

"Thank you so much, Ana, thank you, you don't know how grateful I am, how can –"

"Shh, I'm just doing my job as a friend. Now off with you! I have other customers to serve." Her bright, infectious smile had returned to her face, and he couldn't help but grin back.

"Thank you," he said more quietly, meeting her eyes to show her how thankful he was.

"I hope you find your friend!" she called out in the place of goodbye, as she shooed him away from the counter.

"I hope so," he echoed under his breath as he stepped onto the sidewalk. There was no violent wind; only a soothing breeze, the sky clear and an unusual sense of peacefulness in the air. Amber leaves were drifting down from trees, treading a short dance in the air before finally falling. The streets were layered in dead leaves, but the colours were vibrant and beautiful. He thought about how Blaine couldn't appreciate such leaves anymore, and felt rather sad. He wrapped his hands around his coffee cup to warm them, taking a scalding sip of coffee.

"I hope so too."

A week passed, then two, then three, with still no reappearance of Blaine. Rachel had stopped harassing the taxi company a long time ago, although Kurt still kept the crumpled slip of paper with the license plate number on it buried deep in the recesses of his bedside table drawer. Ana stopped updating him on the absence of Blaine in Snice, even though he never stopped scanning over the shop as he entered; it became second nature to briefly run his eyes over every face to make sure that none was the one he was looking for. Maybe that was it. Maybe that few minutes of contact really was the last time Kurt would ever see Blaine. It was a hard reality to face, though, and Kurt had never been particularly good with these, so he told himself to not give up, and almost had himself convinced that Blaine would pop up somewhere sooner or later. Because if he resigned himself to the fact that no, they would never meet again, he was doubtful of maintaining his sanity for an extended amount of time thereafter.

So he continued waiting for news, always holding his breath whenever he reached the front of the line, despite the fact that Ana never had news, apart from the occasional pieces of information about promotions on the coffee.

He was always set up for disappointment, and maybe that was how it would remain for the rest of his life.

It was yet another day in Snice, and he had just bought his grande non-fat mocha and was making his way out of the shop, typing out a message on his phone, when he, for the second time in his life, bumped into someone.

"Shit!' he heard a moment before he felt hop droplets rain down on the back of his hand. Subconsciously, he knew he should probably be worried about the heated stinging of coffee on his fingers – thankfully it hadn't seemed to have gotten on his coat this time – but that wasn't key right now because _it was that voice again _and he seemed to have lost the power of speech and he didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. Maybe fate wasn't trying to pry them apart, after all.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry, shit, are you alright?"

Slowly, he looked up to see Blaine standing in front of him, holding the spilt cup of coffee at arm's length, a beanie hugging his head, still wearing his sunglasses and still with that furry dog by his side. The dog was now licking at the spilt droplets of coffee on the floor. Blaine stood unmoving, as if terrified he would cause another mishap again, and this caused Kurt's heart to twist. Even with the sunglasses on, Kurt could still tell how Blaine's face was twisted in distress, and he felt a familiar pang followed by a rise of protectiveness within him. Blaine clamped his lips together and turned his to the side then down, looking almost anguished, a mannerism so familiar that all Kurt instinctively wanted to do right now was throw his arms around Blaine, murmur into his ear and sweep away the pain with a dozen kisses trailing down his cheek, jaw line, and down the curve of his neck-into-shoulders, just like he used to do whenever Blaine got upset. He remembered the way Blaine used to press into him tightly and dig his face into Kurt's shoulder, clinging onto Kurt like a drowning man to a life buoy. He missed that feeling. That heady, dizzying feeling of being wanted. Of being _needed._

But things had changed dramatically since then, so Kurt suppressed the urge.

"I'm… I'm sorry, are you okay?" Blaine's panicked inquiry broke through his reverie, and Kurt realized with a stab to his heart that Blaine couldn't see him, and his silence thus gave Blaine good reason to think that he was mortally wounded in some way or another.

"I'm okay," Kurt replied on autopilot, his voice high and breathy, not taking his eyes off Blaine, drinking in the sight of him for the first time in a long while. Blaine looked the same way he had three weeks back during their last encounter, but Kurt could only register the differences between the twenty year old Blaine and the teenage Blaine.

His hair fell in loose curls that peeked out from under the beanie, encircling the tips of his earsBlaine was so much thinner than he was before, which was almost scary, seeing that he had already been slight back in high school. His navy sweater only served to accentuate this, as it hugged his body snugly. His waist was as slender as before, but his shoulders looked narrower and his biceps less defined, if you could tell that much through layers of winter clothes. Kurt prided himself on having a good eye, though. Kurt had never felt the difference in their heights very significantly, but now that difference was emphasized such that he felt quite a lot _bigger. _It unsettled him far more than he thought it would. _Everything's changed. _

Even Blaine's face was thinner, his cheekbones and jaw more prominent than before. His nose was still the same, with that little bump in it Kurt used to love running his fingers over. There were tiny lines stretching from the corners of his mouth, and his skin was paler than before. Blaine looked, for the lack of a better word, haggard. Ana's words came back to him. _He must have been through so much. _Looking at Blaine now, Kurt suddenly understood the bitter truth in that statement, and all at once he felt a stinging at the back of his eyes, because how much had Blaine suffered? His own pain must have been nothing compared to what Blaine had gone through; Blaine was blind,_ and _he had lost his memory, for god's sake. He didn't think he had wanted to hug Blaine so much right now, but again, he repressed the urge.

"It's you," Blaine said in surprise, his worry lifted for the moment.

"I'm sorry?" Kurt said, cautiously.

"I bumped into you that time! A few weeks ago, if I remember correctly? Right here, in this coffee shop."

Kurt was dumbfounded for a moment. Blaine remembered him. Blaine remembered a total stranger he hadn't spoken more than a few words to from such a while back. If he looked at it in a detached way, their brief encounter would not have developed into more than a cursory memory. If it had been Kurt bumping into someone else, he was sure he would have forgotten entirely the next day. But Blaine remembered. And Blaine was _blind, _which would make it even harder to get an impression. He remembered, and surely that meant something.

"You remember me?" Kurt blurted out, and cursed himself for sounding so stupid. What kind of question was that, anyway? To a stranger, it must sound really _weird_. _Twenty-one and still so socially inept; way to go, Kurt Hummel. _

"Yeah," Blaine confirmed, "you've got a really noticeable voice." Now it was his turn to blush.

"No, it's fine," Kurt assured him, the words slipping easily from his mouth. "I get that all the time." Where were all these words coming from? All he had wanted to do was sit Blaine down and say _I'm Kurt, and I don't understand what's going on right now, but we used to love each other_. It sounded ridiculous now. Why would Blaine believe him? He would probably think Kurt was some manic stalker and try to escape in the politest (because that was Blaine, ever polite) but quickest way possible. So maybe he should just try to get Blaine to know him, before springing the big news onto him. Yes. That was the plan, for now.

"I remember sounds more clearly now," Blaine explained, looking less mortified. "So unique voices stand out more."

_He said my voice was unique! _Kurt couldn't control the thrill of happiness that ran through him.

This was confusing on so many levels. He knew Blaine, but Blaine didn't know him, and of course Blaine had said a million times before how Kurt's voice was beautiful, but hearing him say it now in such a different context was an entirely different feeling. He felt like a teenager again, the same way he had felt when Blaine, still woefully oblivious, had complimented him.

_For the record, you, are much better than that girl's gonna be._

Kurt could feel himself blushing as he replied. "People always remember me for my voice, actually." Why had he said that! It sounded totally like he was showing off! Although, the old Blaine would have laughed and leaned in for a kiss…

It seemed his worries were unfounded though, as Blaine threw back his head and laughed. Kurt could feel himself smiling too, and he didn't understand how it was so easy to just talk to Blaine like that? In that moment, it felt like old times, and almost immediately Kurt felt the lighthearted feeling in his chest dissipate as he remembered where they were now. _It's not the same as before_, he reminded himself firmly. _Get yourself together. _

"I'm sorry for knocking into you," he began more somberly, but Blaine cut him off.

"Oh, no! It's my fault, I wasn't looking."

There was a pause, in which Kurt's eyes widened and Blaine's mouth hung open for a moment awkwardly. It was as if they were both reminded of where they were.

"Shit, I'm sorry, but I should probably be going now…" Blaine blabbered, his face downcast and very red, as he made to turn away.

"No!" Kurt cried. "I mean," he continued more calmly when Blaine looked at him oddly. "we could still get more coffee? Seeing as ours is spilled anyway?" He held his breath as he waited for Blaine to respond.

"Okay," Blaine said finally, and Kurt struggled to hide the sound of relief that rose from the back of his throat. "Okay," he said heavily, as if making a huge decision. But he pasted a smile on his face and stuck a hand forward formally.

"My name's Blaine."

Tentatively, Kurt reached out his hand, feeling a sense of déjà vu. _We're back to the start_, he thought. He grasped Blaine's hand, which was warm and dry and sent tingles shooting up his arm. He held on firmly and shook.

"Kurt."


	5. Chapter 5

Kurt stood in the line, surreptitiously sneaking glances at Blaine as he made to find an empty table in the crowded coffee shop. They had agreed, in rather stilted tones, that they should try to bag a table before the lunch crowd came, and so Kurt was sent to buy the coffee while Blaine attempted to search for a free table. _There's no need to be so sneaky, he can't see you, _he thought, then immediately felt bad for thinking such a thing. He fixed his gaze firmly on the blonde head in front of him; a second later, he swiveled around again to look for Blaine. He spotted him, sliding easily into a booth at the corner of the room. His movements were still so fluid, and he looked so comfortable in his surroundings; for a moment Kurt could pretend he was normal. Then he felt another prickle of disgust with himself. Did he just use the word _normal_? As if Blaine was some sort of freak of nature just because he was blind? No. No, of course not. Blaine was just as beautiful as he was.

Blind. The idea always shocked Kurt for a split second before it sank in.

He glanced back to Blaine, who seemed to be saying something to his dog, who had jumped onto the seat with him. He raised a hand and stroked the dog's head, scratching its neck tenderly. Blaine's mouth suddenly creased into a wide smile as he bent down to stare his dog in the eye. It stung, to think that Blaine's relationship with Kurt was so much more foreign compared to that of with his dog.

The sunglasses were still perched atop his nose; Kurt wanted them off, so he could once again look into Blaine's eyes – he missed them so much – but at the same time he was terrified of what he might see. Then, for the third time, he felt horrible, for how could he be _scared _of Blaine? How could he judge him based on how he looked? _It's not just his looks, _a part of him argued. _It's natural to be scared. _Scared of what, really? A confirmation of his disability? Or was he just being selfish and mourning the fact that Blaine couldn't see him? Or maybe, it was just that he was afraid of change, of the unexpected.

"Earth to Kurt? Hellooo?"

He turned to Ana with a start. "Sorry, I was. Um."

She squinted at him inquisitively. "I'm confused. Why are you back? Didn't I see you making your way out just a few minutes ago?"

"Um," he began. "I spilled my coffee. And… I met a friend."

Ana's eyes widened. She dipped her head and leaned over the counter to Kurt. "_The _friend?" she asked in a hushed whisper.

He felt a smile bubbling through his deadpan visage. "Yes," he replied with a small laugh, "_the _friend."

All of a sudden he felt a surge of joy within him. He had found Blaine. Despite having prepared himself for the reality of never meeting Blaine again – well, look how that had turned out. The realization started setting in –however late – and he felt his excitement grow. _He had found Blaine! _Finally, he could talk to Blaine, listen to the smooth timbre of his voice, the soothing lilt which he had missed so much. He could again run his eyes over the bump in Blaine's nose, the slight jut of his chin, and the slope of his jaw. And maybe, sometime in the far future, he would get to remember the feel of running his fingers through soft black curls, get to relive the warmth of clasped hands, fingers intertwined, fitting perfectly. In that second, it didn't matter that Blaine couldn't see, or that he couldn't remember. Because Blaine was here. And Kurt would find a way, no matter the odds, to get back at least a fraction of what they used to have.

"The usual for me, plus one medium drip." He told Ana with a brilliant smile.

She grinned back, but when she spoke it was with much fondness. "I'm glad you found him, sweetie."

"Thanks," Kurt said, blushing under her suddenly thoughtful gaze. "I'm glad, too."

Blaine's hand was stroking the dog's head rhythmically and looking straight ahead, sitting unmoving, when Kurt arrived with the coffee. Kurt couldn't keep his eyes away

"Thanks," Blaine said all of a sudden, shocking Kurt, who jumped and felt the tray wobble in his hands precariously, and averted his eyes before remembering that it wouldn't make a difference.

"No problem," he said hastily with a high-pitched giggle in an attempt to cover up how flustered he was. He slid the tray down onto the table and watched in wonder as Blaine's hand reached out confidently to wrap around one cup. "Is this mine?"

Kurt nodded. Then, "oh! Yes, yes that's yours." Blushing furiously at his blunder, he made a grab at his own coffee cup and threw back a mouthful, spluttering as it burned down his throat. _Eyes burning throat burning ow ow ow. _

"Are you alright?" Blaine asked, sounding slightly alarmed. Through the watering in his eyes, Kurt noticed how Blaine leaned forward over the table in concern, but even then held his body stiffly, shoulders bending over cautiously.

"I'm fine!" Kurt gasped, breathing heavily and blinking furiously, taking in huge breaths of air. He swallowed. "I'm fine," he repeated with more decorum, feeling very stupid. _Real smooth Kurt, real smooth. _Couldn't he manage to get through just one simple conversation without making a fool of himself? Did his subconscious not realize how important this meeting was? It wasn't the time for being foolish.

To his relief, Blaine laughed. "I used to do that all the time. Hurt like hell, and I never learnt."

_You never did that, _Kurt thought, _you were a coffee drinking connoisseur. _

Out loud, he said, pathetically, "Ouch."

There was a pause, in which Kurt fidgeted uncomfortably while Blaine took a sip of his coffee. _Say something!_

"Is that your dog?" he finally settled on, cringing again once the words left his mouth. _Of course it's his dog, stupid. _

Blaine was still ever gracious, though, and looked pleased to be asked that question. "Yes! This is Chloe." He blushed. "Silly name for a dog, I know, but I like it a lot." He ran his fingers through the thick fur on the dog's head again, tilting her head up above the table.

"Right," Kurt managed, throat tightening. "Hello, um, Chloe," he said awkwardly, voice strangled, his nose burning from the effort of trying not to cry.

"Say hello to Kurt, sweetie." Blaine reached down for Chloe's paw, smiling indulgently, and lifted it above the table to wave at Kurt. Chloe didn't so much as whimper, just looked at Kurt placidly as Blaine manhandled her. Kurt lifted his hand and waved back cautiously, feeling more than a little unsettled under the dog's seemingly judging gaze. It was as if Chloe was sizing him up, deciding whether or not Kurt was good enough for Blaine. "Hey," he tried, smiling nervously, and Chloe cocked her head to the side and stuck her tongue out, panting loudly, lifting her other paw so that both were braced on the table.

"She likes you," Blaine cooed, sounding delighted. "Shake hands," he commanded, to Kurt's horror.

"Oh, no, I…" Kurt began apprehensively, instinctively shying backwards. He had never been very much of a dog person, and Chloe was huge and frankly, quite terrifying.

Blaine was still prodding at Chloe's right paw, appearing to not have heard Kurt. "Come on," he said encouragingly, though Chloe seemed unfazed. After a pause, she propped herself higher up and stuck out a paw. Taking a fortifying breath, Kurt reached out a hand and warily took her paw in his, stiffening up in case something happened. It was surprisingly heavy, and her fur was thick and much fluffier than he. He shook, releasing his hand quickly. It wasn't _that _bad, but he still wasn't entirely comfortable being in this close contact to a mega-sized dog, no matter how tame she was.

"Good girl," Blaine mumbled lovingly, scratching Chloe's head again, so that she slid back down onto the seat to bury her head into Blaine's side. Blaine laughed, then caught himself.

"Sorry," he told Kurt abashedly, "I'm ignoring you."

"No! It's perfectly fine, she's a lovely, um… creature."

Blaine preened, not noticing Kurt's hesitation. "Isn't she? She's a golden retriever; I've had her for almost… one and a half years?"

"That's long," Kurt replied distractedly as he furiously made mental calculations in his head.

"But enough about me, what about you? Are you in college, or…?"

"College. I go to Parsons, not too far from here. I study fashion design."

"Whoa, Parsons, that's amazing!" Blaine sounded genuinely impressed. "And fashion design, I just… wow. That's really cool. You must be pretty good, then," Blaine smiled impishly, showing all his teeth.

(Kurt wanted to ask him about the sunglasses, about why he was wearing them, and could he please take them off because Kurt missed seeing his face properly? But that would be excessively forward of him.)

"I'm alright," Kurt said, blushing, losing track of his calculations.

"I'm sure you're great," Blaine told him encouragingly, taking a sip of his coffee. Kurt quickly took a sip of his too, realizing he had forgotten all about his coffee, so caught up in conversation with Blaine as he was. Blaine set the cup down on the table easily, and reached up to rub his right eye underneath the sunglasses. Kurt's eyes followed Blaine's hand inquisitively, half trying not to stare but unable to look away. He focused his gaze on Blaine's sunglasses, too dark to see anything through them, and thought about how he missed Blaine's hazel eyes, always so bright and sparkling and beautiful and full of life. He thought of Blaine's eyelashes, spidery long and thick and the perfect tool to turn Kurt's knees to jelly, of how Blaine used to tip his chin down and stare up mesmerizingly at Kurt through them, eyes burning and hard, lips wet and parted. Kurt shivered at the image, recalling the hazy memory of what always came afterward, a flurry of hasty kisses, stolen touches and tangled limbs.

"So what do you do?" Kurt asked, steering the conversation away from himself, determined to find out more about Blaine and his life.

"Oh, I'm majoring in music at NYU."

"Not music theatre?" Kurt blurted out, without thinking.

Blaine quirked his eyebrow up in puzzlement. "No… I always wanted to do it though, but this," he gestured vaguely in the direction of his face with an amused smile, "happened, and I know they always say how blind people can do anything a normal person can, but I decided I would be missing out a lot if I did music theatre, so I chose this instead." It was the first time Blaine had directly mentioned his blindness, and it caused a jump in Kurt's stomach at how easily and matter-of-factly the words came out of Blaine's mouth, like it wasn't much of a big deal. He didn't like it, to be honest; there was a part of him that, no matter what he told himself, still wanted to believe that Blaine's blindness wasn't… reality. That it was a surreal and altogether unpleasant "add-on". But it was obvious that Blaine had resigned himself to his unfortunate plight a long time ago, and that he would have to sacrifice so much to accommodate for his blindness, and with this Kurt felt the backs of his eyes prickling again.

Blaine bobbed his shoulders up and down. "No big deal. I really enjoy music."

"I see," he responded quietly, not trusting himself to say anything more without his voice trembling, afraid that Blaine might notice. And he had finally calculated: one and a half years with Chloe – this meant that Blaine had been blind at least since mid-2014, a year after he disappeared.

There was a lull in the conversation. _Now's the time to ask him about what happened, why he left you. Why he can't remember all of that now. _But where to start? There was too much. He couldn't condense the past two and a half years into one question in a conversation over coffee. And what if he scared Blaine off? If Kurt was just a stranger-in-a-coffee-shop to Blaine now, what was to say Blaine wouldn't be freaked if he started shooting off questions about his past and things he _couldn't possibly _have known? He glanced at Blaine over the rim of his coffee cup again, noting how, despite the sunglasses, the accentuated skinniness, he still had those unruly curls when untamed by copious amounts of hair gel, the same smallish ears and jutting chin, the same dark eyebrows. There was the familiar quirk of his lips, perpetually curved into an absentminded smile no matter what. He thought of the way Blaine smiled so readily whenever Kurt asked something. Blaine seemed happy. Kurt didn't know what had happened to him, but as of now, Blaine appeared to be contented with his lot in life. And Kurt couldn't go and mess all that up right at this moment, confusing him with events of the past. He couldn't bring himself to talk about the past with Blaine. _You have so much time. It can wait._

"It's actually my first year in college; I just moved to NYC a couple of months ago," Blaine explained.

This was news to Kurt. "A couple of months ago?" he echoed. "Where were you before?"

"Minneapolis, Minnesota."

"Minnesota!" Kurt exclaimed in surprise, mind reeling. Minnesota… what was it about Minnesota? The only things he could recall was learning, in his sophomore year, about how it was where the Second Treaty of Paris had been signed at the end of the American Revolutionary War.

From Ohio to Minnesota… why?

Blaine tilted his head to the side in confusion, a sudden gesture so familiar that it caused an ache of nostalgia to Kurt's heart, out of the blue. "What about Minnesota?" he asked questioningly, sounding the slightest bit defensive.

"Oh!" Kurt fumbled. "My… aunt used to live there. In, er—" he racked his brains for a city in Minnesota that wasn't Minneapolis. "Duluth! Yes, she lived in Duluth," he decided, nodding vigorously. "I used to visit her every summer," he babbled on nervously. _Stop talking now. _"It was great, she was awesome."

"She doesn't live in Duluth anymore?"

"No… she, um, died. Er. Last month," he added mindlessly, cringing the second the words left his mouth.

_STOP TALKING._

Blaine's face fell almost comically, considering that Kurt was blabbering on about a _non-existent aunt_'s death. "I'm so sorry," he said earnestly, in the most Blaine-esque way possible, or so Kurt felt. Before he could say anything, Blaine reached out across the table to take Kurt's hand in his, the unexpected touch sending jolts of electricity through his arm. Kurt stifled a gasp, and was suddenly very aware of keeping his hand still, as Blaine's warm fingers curled gently around them. He could feel the rough calluses on the tips of Blaine's fingers from guitar and piano playing, contrasted with the smoothness of his palms – a sensation he remembered with unarming clarity.

_Running down the hallway at Dalton hand in hand, his first time ever really **holding hands **with a boy. _

_ Blaine in a drunken haze, giggling as his fingers traced random patterns across Kurt's collar bone as Kurt hauled him into the car after Rachel's disastrous house party. _

_ Blaine's hand cupping his cheek as he leaned forward, closer and closer and closer until their lips met and sealed in a slow, hard kiss – the first of many. _

_ Blaine's hands, fingers, mouth trailing over bare skin, reaching lower and lower, brushing as lightly and teasingly as wisps of breeze on a hot summer's day. _

Blaine squeezed Kurt's hand in his, appearing genuinely upset.

_ Do not move._

"It's alright," Kurt breathed, "I wasn't very close to her anyway."

Blaine paused and pulled away, leaving Kurt's right hand feeling cold.

"You used to visit her every summer, you thought she was awesome, but she passed away last month and it's alright?" he asked quizzically.

Kurt's cheeks burned, despite the fact that Blaine seemed purely curious and not at all judging. "No," he mumbled embarrassedly, "she – I – was, yeah, nice, but, um. Yeah."

Kurt wanted to punch himself.

Blaine, fortunately, looked fairly bemused. "Well, I'm sorry about your aunt. Duluth must have missed her."

Kurt couldn't tell if Blaine was joking or not, except for a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He took a huge sip of coffee and sat up straighter to regain his composure. _I can do this. I can be dignified. I can impress Blaine Anderson. I've done it billions of times before. _

_ Too bad he's forgotten all of them. _

"As you were saying… you just moved here?"

"Yeah, and it's been a blast! New York is amazing. Plus it's great to have time for myself now."

"Time for yourself? You're here alone?"

"Of course! My mum insisted on staying with me for the first month though. She didn't believe I could take care of myself," Blaine added, bitterness bleeding into his tone with his last sentence, and for a painful moment Kurt recognized that look, how Blaine used to occasionally show up on Kurt's doorstep with no warning, his eyes dull and face twisted into _that_ expression, meaning that Kurt would have to hug and kiss and sing to him for up to hours before it would go away. Right now, all he wanted to do was slide right in next to Blaine and slip a comforting arm around his waist, press Blaine's head over his shoulder, just so the pained glaze of his eyes he knew was there and the twist of his mouth would go away. But he couldn't.

Blaine shook himself, as if reminding himself of where he was. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to complain. You probably don't want to hear about my boring life."

_I do. _

"It's okay," Kurt soothed, "I don't mind. Not at all," he added, perhaps too eagerly, crossing his fingers.

Blaine laughed at this, the infectious grin now returning to his face.

"Trust me, you don't want to know about the last couple years of my life. It's pretty screwed up," Blaine warned, pulling a droll face.

And although they should have been somber, though Kurt should probably be experiencing any and all degrees of wretchedness at what Blaine might have gone through, it was impossible not to laugh at the way Blaine had said that, probably with the accompanying comical eye-roll.

So they laughed together, the clear peal of Kurt's giggle and Blaine's warm chuckle mixing together to form a harmony that Kurt hadn't heard for far, far too long. _I missed you, _he thought, gazing at the slopes and contours of Blaine's face, wishing that he could run his fingers over the stubbly skin, and wishing fervently not for the first time that Blaine would take his sunglasses off.

"It's way too intense for this conversation."

"_My _high school career could probably give you a run for your money."

"No one's life story could _ever_ beat the trials and tribulations of one Blaine Anderson."

"Are you kidding? The autobiography of Kurt Hummel is coming out this December, and it's already been estimated to cause a worldwide sob-fest amongst teenagers aged 14-18."

"Now, _that _might beat me out."

"Run for your money, huh?"

"Fine, _fine._"

It was so _easy. _So easy to pretend nothing had happened, that he and Blaine were really two strangers lucky enough to experience two serendipitous encounters in a lovely quaint coffee shop in New York, city of dreams and hope and love, where they could banter and hit-off and eventually fall in love and get legally married for real because this was liberal New York and not stuffy old Ohio and experience their own happily ever after.

It would be so easy to just live that way and bury the past behind them.

"So, Blaine, what's your favourite part of NYC?" Kurt asked playfully once they'd stopped laughing. "The empire state building, or Central Park? Wait, don't tell me – Saks Fifth Avenue?"

All of a sudden, Blaine looked abashed. "Actually… I haven't been to any of those."

Kurt's eyes boggled. "What?!" he shrieked, drawing the inquisitive glances of the couple at the table next to theirs.

"I haven't really had time!" Blaine replied defensively. "I've been busy with school and moving and…" he trailed off.

Kurt was still shaking his head, aghast. "I can't believe you haven't been sightseeing. Jesus. It's New York!"

"Well, being me does take the punch out of sightseeing," Blaine responded wryly.

There was a shocked silence. Blaine looked embarrassed at what he had just said. Kurt was taken aback by the way Blaine had spoken so thoughtlessly; not that he minded, but Blaine had never, ever been snarky or made things purposely uncomfortable for anyone without very good reason before (apart from his father; but that was a different matter entirely).

"Sorry, I—" "I'm sorry—" they both began at the same time.

Kurt nodded at Blaine to go first.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking thoroughly apologetic, "I forget how awkward it is for other people sometimes." He took a deep breath and rested his chin on his hand.

"I'm sorry for being insensitive," Kurt murmured.

"No, it's perfectly fine." Blaine continued, deadpan but with a teasing lilt in his words. "But I just haven't found anyone good enough to be my official tour guide." He winked at Kurt.

"I couldn't have my finest New York experiences tainted by bad running commentary, could I?"

Kurt finally caught on, stifling a giggle, glad that the awkward moment had glossed over as quickly as it had come. "I happen to know someone who could make sure New York was amazing for you," he said impishly.

Blaine reached into his coat pocket and fished out his phone, handing it to Kurt over the table. "Could you give me his number?"

"Of course. And here, give me yours too. I'm sure he'd want some way to contact you." Kurt passed his phone to Blaine as well, trying not to laugh.

"Tell me when you're free, and I'll arrange something."

"Can do," Blaine agreed, as they both stood up and made to leave. Chloe slid down onto the floor, staying very still as Blaine fumbled to grasp onto her leash. They stood for a few moments, Kurt drinking in the sight of Blaine, committing the image to memory: navy sweater, beanie, sunglasses, adorable smile and all.

"See you, then," Blaine said, smirking almost flirtatiously.

"See you too," Kurt responded, all he could think of being _I have Blaine Anderson back. _

He wasn't about to let go.

* * *

**_A Memory:_**

_ "I don't know... They're both so beautiful." _

_ "The blue one would be amazing with your eyes," Blaine said helpfully. _

_ "But the red is so lovely! And it's **azure, **not blue. God, this is hard."_

_ "Why don't you get both?"_

_ "I don't have that sort of money... And stop rolling your eyes at me, I really don't."_

_ "If you say so."_

_ "Blaaaaaine! Help me here!" The computer balanced on both their thighs shifted as Kurt wriggled in consternation. _

_ "I think," Blaine said decisively, shifting away from Kurt to stretch his legs out on the bed, causing the computer to tilt dangerously, "that you should choose the blue. **Azure**. It's casual, unique, and the colour is gorgeous." Blaine looked up from the computer screen to glance at Kurt. "Just like you," he said, matter-of-factly. "So it matches, you see?" Then, as if afraid Kurt wouldn't get it, he continued hurriedly, "the perfect scarf for a perfect person." _

_ Kurt felt a frisson of contentment run through him at the way Blaine could carry across such a ridiculously cheesy line and **still **make it sound like the sweetest thing. He settled on raising an eyebrow teasingly at him. "Really?" he said slyly, "that's the best you can do?" _

_ Blaine laughed at this, his eyes crinkling up adorably and lips pulling back into such a genuinely joyous, innocent **Blaine** smile that Kurt couldn't help but lean forward and impulsively press a quick kiss onto Blaine's laughing mouth, tasting the sickly sweetness of maple syrup and feeling Blaine's grin beneath his own as he did so. When he pulled away with a purposely loud smacking sound to rest back against the headboard, Blaine was sitting quite still, eyes widened in pleasant surprise but his mouth still curved into a gentle smile. Kurt smirked back at him. _

_ "What was that for?" Blaine asked. _

_ Kurt shrugged offhandedly. "Just to remind my boyfriend how much I love him, forever and ever and ever." Blaine tilted his head to the side, humming in contentment. Kurt laughed. "Come here, you."_

_ A couple of minutes later, they were snuggled together under the covers, despite the fact that it was about eighty five degrees out. Blaine's head was pillowed against Kurt's side; Kurt's arm was curled around Blaine's torso. _

_ "I'll miss this, when you go to New York."_

_ Kurt stiffened, wary of what was to come. It had been a while since the Chandler farce – as he liked to call it – had happened, but the future and New York was still a touchy subject._

_ Blaine went on; if he noticed Kurt's hesitation, he didn't acknowledge it. _

_ "But once I graduate and move there too to be with you, we'll have the time of our lives._

_ "We'll hold hands and walk across the length of the Brooklyn Bridge, go to the AMNH, see everything there was in Night at the Museum, be even cooler than Ben Stiller was. Hell, we'll go to all the museums there are in New York."_

_ "We'll go to Saks Fifth Avenue and I'll carry all your bags for you when you shop." This made Kurt laugh. Blaine shifted to meet Kurt's eyes._

_ "We'll take walks in Central Park, go see the statue of Liberty."_

_ "Watch something on Broadway."_

_ "We'll take a photo in front of the Christmas tree when they set it up at the Rockefeller Centre, like real honest-to-god tourists." _

_ "On Christmas Eve, we'll go to the top of the Empire State Building and kiss when the clock strikes twelve."_

_ "On New Year's eve, we'll watch the ball drop in Times Square, and again, I'll kiss you senseless. Wherever and whenever, like I promised." _

_ Blaine smiled at Kurt, whose eyes were turning watery. Kurt sniffed, blinking furiously. "I'll miss you so much," he admitted. _

_ Blaine smoothed a palm down Kurt's cheek to cup his chin. _

_ "One year isn't too long. One year, and we'll be able to do all that together. I promise." _

_ Kurt gazed into Blaine's eyes, glowing and earnest and so, so beautiful._

_ "Okay," he whispered. _

_ "I promise," he said before Blaine leaned forward and kissed him, this time longer and deeper, a kiss to seal the deal._


End file.
